I've remastered Quixotic to redirect to here but I'm not sure that the RSS feed thingy will keep up (and I'm supposed to be a geek. They're gonna kick me outta the club fairly soon...).
Can y'all therefore please resubscribe from the new address. Cookies and ice cream for all that do *hugs*
Monday, 1 August 2011
Extreme cross country running (and continuous assessment)
Many years ago, when I was in my 20s and dating (by which I do mean 'dating', as opposed to being euphemistic and meaning... 'in a relationship with' or 'shagging',) I had a platonic male friend who was also dating. We used to meet up every few weeks and share our tales of woe - I would vent about the general shortcomings of the male of the species and he would tear at his hair (and occasionally weep) about the utter and total madness and irrationality of woman-kind. No we didn't date. He came to that conclusion independently of dating me, hard though that may be to believe...
And one day, I was doing my usual sounding off thing (as per the arrangement whereby we each had 20 minutes to bemoan each person unless they were measurably AND unusually beyond the standard hopeless case, memorably in my case, the guy whose expressed fantasies involved morgue photos (unfortunately I'm not making this up) and in his case, the woman who used to cry and hold her stuffed teddy bear... throughout the... *ahem* the 'act' as it were; he was dating as a euphemism for 'shagging', I should add) he said, in a very cross way, "God, I'm SO glad that I've never wanted to date you! I fucking HATE women like you, ones that treat relationships as some warped combination of extreme cross country running and continuous assessment!" After I'd picked my jaw up from the floor (and had another drink and smoked a few cigarettes) I was calm enough to actually respond. Probably not very coherently - it was likely to be a "wtf are you saying???" response. It was possibly... harsher and involved my sanity in comparison with the woman discussed above, but regardless, I eventually let him explain what he meant, and ever since then, the general point he was making has stuck with me.
His expressed view was that I, along with a proportion of woman-kind, were insecure in themselves and when they started to date, they scattered the relationship path with obstacles. He said something to the effect of, you (meaning 'me') need to be chased. All the time. And that when being chased and caught isn't enough for you, you make it harder. Look - see me sprint across flimsy rope bridge across this chasm? Will you run after me? What if I swim the river - will you swim too? How about if I make you climb this cliff face? Jump through this hoop. Now watch while I pour petrol on it and set it on fire. Will you jump through it now? And on and on. I'm sure you get the picture.
Then, he said, you couple this with non-stop overt and covert 'tests'. Will you do 'this'? If I do 'that' what will you do? If I throw my drink in your face at some perceived slight and walk out will you follow (I should add that I have never thrown my drink at anyone...) me and hug me? If I can't see you one night (due to some actual important 'thing' cropping up) will you pitch a hissy fit? If I look for drama will you be a leading cast member, or just one of the chorus? If I don't call you when I say I will, how many voicemails do I have to leave you before you'll deign to answer the phone / return my call?
Now, I know that I have been known to do this. One of the reasons for this blog name is a line from the David Lehman poem, When a Man Loves a Woman, which says:
"And when she says, “I’ll never speak to you again,”
she means, “Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window."
I know I'm not good at saying what I mean, clearly and unambiguously. And I recognise that I am horribly insecure, and no, I don't know why. Seriously, therapy and everything didn't assist me with sussing it out. But I do try not do do this. I don't always succeed, but I do try. I know that as a functioning *ahem* adult, I should be able to say, "I'm feeling insecure. Hug me and tell me you love me." But often, I just can't make the words come. And I'm blessed that usually, I don't have to say them. Himself knows me well enough now to know when I'm brooding and tries to avert the crash. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes I have to crash, but then I need Himself to be there to pull me out of the wreckage. And so far he has been. But honestly, how many times can someone pick up the pieces before they run out of will and desire to?
And one day, I was doing my usual sounding off thing (as per the arrangement whereby we each had 20 minutes to bemoan each person unless they were measurably AND unusually beyond the standard hopeless case, memorably in my case, the guy whose expressed fantasies involved morgue photos (unfortunately I'm not making this up) and in his case, the woman who used to cry and hold her stuffed teddy bear... throughout the... *ahem* the 'act' as it were; he was dating as a euphemism for 'shagging', I should add) he said, in a very cross way, "God, I'm SO glad that I've never wanted to date you! I fucking HATE women like you, ones that treat relationships as some warped combination of extreme cross country running and continuous assessment!" After I'd picked my jaw up from the floor (and had another drink and smoked a few cigarettes) I was calm enough to actually respond. Probably not very coherently - it was likely to be a "wtf are you saying???" response. It was possibly... harsher and involved my sanity in comparison with the woman discussed above, but regardless, I eventually let him explain what he meant, and ever since then, the general point he was making has stuck with me.
His expressed view was that I, along with a proportion of woman-kind, were insecure in themselves and when they started to date, they scattered the relationship path with obstacles. He said something to the effect of, you (meaning 'me') need to be chased. All the time. And that when being chased and caught isn't enough for you, you make it harder. Look - see me sprint across flimsy rope bridge across this chasm? Will you run after me? What if I swim the river - will you swim too? How about if I make you climb this cliff face? Jump through this hoop. Now watch while I pour petrol on it and set it on fire. Will you jump through it now? And on and on. I'm sure you get the picture.
Then, he said, you couple this with non-stop overt and covert 'tests'. Will you do 'this'? If I do 'that' what will you do? If I throw my drink in your face at some perceived slight and walk out will you follow (I should add that I have never thrown my drink at anyone...) me and hug me? If I can't see you one night (due to some actual important 'thing' cropping up) will you pitch a hissy fit? If I look for drama will you be a leading cast member, or just one of the chorus? If I don't call you when I say I will, how many voicemails do I have to leave you before you'll deign to answer the phone / return my call?
Now, I know that I have been known to do this. One of the reasons for this blog name is a line from the David Lehman poem, When a Man Loves a Woman, which says:
"And when she says, “I’ll never speak to you again,”
she means, “Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window."
I know I'm not good at saying what I mean, clearly and unambiguously. And I recognise that I am horribly insecure, and no, I don't know why. Seriously, therapy and everything didn't assist me with sussing it out. But I do try not do do this. I don't always succeed, but I do try. I know that as a functioning *ahem* adult, I should be able to say, "I'm feeling insecure. Hug me and tell me you love me." But often, I just can't make the words come. And I'm blessed that usually, I don't have to say them. Himself knows me well enough now to know when I'm brooding and tries to avert the crash. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes I have to crash, but then I need Himself to be there to pull me out of the wreckage. And so far he has been. But honestly, how many times can someone pick up the pieces before they run out of will and desire to?
Thursday, 28 July 2011
Most modern art makes me want to scrub the kitchen table...
One of the (many) things I've always wanted to do is to own a piece of art. Godsdammit, that sounds epically pretentious. Let's try again. When we (finally) sell my house and (finally) buy a house of our own I would like to have something hanging on my bedroom wall that's a one off. An actual canvas (or whatever) that's been created by someone.
It's funny, one of the ways Himself and Myself get ourselves through the inevitable stress that is house selling and purchasing is by talking about our home and our 'vision' (urgh - horrible management-speak word... euch... apologies...) for it overall, and for each room. We're not daft enough to be hugely specific, not knowing what we're actually going to be able to get does away with the 'dream home' conversation, but we do discuss stuff like colours and decor and things.
I have a 'thing' (in fact I have many 'things' like not being able to get into an unmade bed - so I feel sorry for Em!) but one of my 'things' is bedroom décor. I loathe televisions in the bedroom. Bedrooms, in my opinion, are for sleeping or for... staying awake in, but they aren't for watching tv in (this assumes that you have a separate living space, obviously). I've had too many conversations with friends apropos of certain... things (i.e. 'romance') lessening in relationships and they usually contain a sentence similar to 'and we go to bed and watch tv then we fall asleep...' and I'm thinking, 'ok, then take the tv out of the bedroom, go to bed and make love, for heavens sake, without the tv as a distraction!' but I usually manage to be a bit more tactful than that... So yes, no tv in my bedroom! I'm not a big fan of clutter in bedrooms either. Our entire flat is cluttered at the moment, but that's what comes from three people living in a flat that is essentially designed for one person to live in, and this includes the bedroom, but ideally I want everything stowed away. Except for books. Ahem, I have a pile next to the bed, as does Himself.
Light, neutral colours, lots of natural light (if possible), dimmable overhead and tabletop lamps - I don't, ummm, look all that great in the cold unflattering glare of strong overhead lighting, I want a bit of subtlety please... And a piece of art hanging on the wall. I'm not even sure of what exactly I want. I just really want to have something that someone who is creative has... created. I don't want to spend thousands, thank you (and mainly because I don't have thousands to spend) but I really believe that the world needs artists and musicians and writers, as much as it needs professionals and intellectuals (as well as people who work in the service sector, obviously!) I have a huge respect (bordering on awe) for people who are brave enough to say, 'no, this is what I want to do, and I'm going to try. I don't want to stultify in an office or whatever, this is my passion' and I firmly believe in supporting this wherever possible. And that sentence sounds so patronising that I want to slap myself. I hope that you get what I mean though.
So, here is the question. How you you even begin looking for art? I mean I have a vague idea of what I think I want - something abstract, and something I can 'hang' (I don't think I want a sculpture.) I don't have much desire to haul my ass into London (probably ditto Brighton) and look in the arsey, up-themselves galleries (where I wouldn't be able to afford anything anyway!) Any of you own artwork? Any suggestions as to how one goes about finding something that they both like and can afford?
It's funny, one of the ways Himself and Myself get ourselves through the inevitable stress that is house selling and purchasing is by talking about our home and our 'vision' (urgh - horrible management-speak word... euch... apologies...) for it overall, and for each room. We're not daft enough to be hugely specific, not knowing what we're actually going to be able to get does away with the 'dream home' conversation, but we do discuss stuff like colours and decor and things.
I have a 'thing' (in fact I have many 'things' like not being able to get into an unmade bed - so I feel sorry for Em!) but one of my 'things' is bedroom décor. I loathe televisions in the bedroom. Bedrooms, in my opinion, are for sleeping or for... staying awake in, but they aren't for watching tv in (this assumes that you have a separate living space, obviously). I've had too many conversations with friends apropos of certain... things (i.e. 'romance') lessening in relationships and they usually contain a sentence similar to 'and we go to bed and watch tv then we fall asleep...' and I'm thinking, 'ok, then take the tv out of the bedroom, go to bed and make love, for heavens sake, without the tv as a distraction!' but I usually manage to be a bit more tactful than that... So yes, no tv in my bedroom! I'm not a big fan of clutter in bedrooms either. Our entire flat is cluttered at the moment, but that's what comes from three people living in a flat that is essentially designed for one person to live in, and this includes the bedroom, but ideally I want everything stowed away. Except for books. Ahem, I have a pile next to the bed, as does Himself.
Light, neutral colours, lots of natural light (if possible), dimmable overhead and tabletop lamps - I don't, ummm, look all that great in the cold unflattering glare of strong overhead lighting, I want a bit of subtlety please... And a piece of art hanging on the wall. I'm not even sure of what exactly I want. I just really want to have something that someone who is creative has... created. I don't want to spend thousands, thank you (and mainly because I don't have thousands to spend) but I really believe that the world needs artists and musicians and writers, as much as it needs professionals and intellectuals (as well as people who work in the service sector, obviously!) I have a huge respect (bordering on awe) for people who are brave enough to say, 'no, this is what I want to do, and I'm going to try. I don't want to stultify in an office or whatever, this is my passion' and I firmly believe in supporting this wherever possible. And that sentence sounds so patronising that I want to slap myself. I hope that you get what I mean though.
So, here is the question. How you you even begin looking for art? I mean I have a vague idea of what I think I want - something abstract, and something I can 'hang' (I don't think I want a sculpture.) I don't have much desire to haul my ass into London (probably ditto Brighton) and look in the arsey, up-themselves galleries (where I wouldn't be able to afford anything anyway!) Any of you own artwork? Any suggestions as to how one goes about finding something that they both like and can afford?
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
What doesn't kill you...
...makes you stronger - amirite? Why then, are we so bad at facing our fears? Just to be clear here, I'm not talking about 'legitimate' fears; the death of a close friend or relative, redundancy concerns - stuff that has 'magnitude', for want of a better phrase. I'm talking about the 'irrational' stuff that churns away in your head. I'm not sure that these things are phobias per se - but then the definition of phobia is somewhat ambiguous: extreme or irrational fear, or aversion to something. I would think that extreme fear can be very rational... Ho-hum. For ease of writing, let's call it an aversion, as a fear doesn't really cover it. Something that you really, really, really don't want to do, or fret about, for no logical reason.
I'm not being deliberately evasive here. I just feel slightly uncomfortable with letting the interwebz as a whole have access to my deep personal stuff, so forgive me (and indulge me, if you can bear to) as I gloss over the specifics of the situation. So I have a 'thing' (that's what we'll call it - my 'thing') about a certain... ongoing situation. Enough of a 'thing' that I get all those unpleasant adrenalin symptoms - you know the ones? Heart rate speeding up, shaky hands and legs, churning tummy? All that classic 'fight or flight' stuff. Which, y'know, is quite unpleasant. And the entire point of adrenalin, after all, is just that. Our body is preparing itself to either run away or fight. But when nothing happens, it takes a while (sometimes hours) for all those chemicals to ebb away. As my dad put it, before he started taking beta blockers, (in his case mainly for hypertension, but also because he was getting unexplained 'adrenalin rushes') 'it's like walking round a corner and coming face to face with a tiger.' Your body goes 'what the hell?' and starts producing noradrenaline, adrenaline and the like. The so-called 'stress hormones'. And because there's no way that those chemicals get used up - there is, unsurprisingly, no tiger to run away from, they have to be reabsorbed. Slowly. And that's one of the things I mind. Walking helps, mind you, I guess logically - whilst you might not be running you are at least taking some exercise to speed up the re-absorption.
But yes. Urgh, it's unpleasant. So does 'feeling the fear and doing it anyway' actually help? Please, please say yes it does. Because in about 10 days I'll (hopefully) be doing just that. Tiny baby steps to dealing with something that's bothered me for a while now. Yes, it'll be pretty nasty in the short-term, but this situation ain't going away. It's going to be there for the long-term, so having to 'man up, princess' and start to push through the yukky stuff, with the hope that eventually it'll get better is right, non?
I'm not being deliberately evasive here. I just feel slightly uncomfortable with letting the interwebz as a whole have access to my deep personal stuff, so forgive me (and indulge me, if you can bear to) as I gloss over the specifics of the situation. So I have a 'thing' (that's what we'll call it - my 'thing') about a certain... ongoing situation. Enough of a 'thing' that I get all those unpleasant adrenalin symptoms - you know the ones? Heart rate speeding up, shaky hands and legs, churning tummy? All that classic 'fight or flight' stuff. Which, y'know, is quite unpleasant. And the entire point of adrenalin, after all, is just that. Our body is preparing itself to either run away or fight. But when nothing happens, it takes a while (sometimes hours) for all those chemicals to ebb away. As my dad put it, before he started taking beta blockers, (in his case mainly for hypertension, but also because he was getting unexplained 'adrenalin rushes') 'it's like walking round a corner and coming face to face with a tiger.' Your body goes 'what the hell?' and starts producing noradrenaline, adrenaline and the like. The so-called 'stress hormones'. And because there's no way that those chemicals get used up - there is, unsurprisingly, no tiger to run away from, they have to be reabsorbed. Slowly. And that's one of the things I mind. Walking helps, mind you, I guess logically - whilst you might not be running you are at least taking some exercise to speed up the re-absorption.
But yes. Urgh, it's unpleasant. So does 'feeling the fear and doing it anyway' actually help? Please, please say yes it does. Because in about 10 days I'll (hopefully) be doing just that. Tiny baby steps to dealing with something that's bothered me for a while now. Yes, it'll be pretty nasty in the short-term, but this situation ain't going away. It's going to be there for the long-term, so having to 'man up, princess' and start to push through the yukky stuff, with the hope that eventually it'll get better is right, non?
Saturday, 23 July 2011
I cried for you on the kitchen floor
Ever have one of those weekends where there just aren't enough tissues in the house, and your eyes are sore and your head hurts from too much crying? We went to Brighton for lunch yesterday and when we came home the Oslo tragedy was all over the news... and I cried. We went walking today, to get away from the world at large - I'm having one of those moments where I need RL to GO AWAY and give me some space; got home to find that Amy Winehouse had died. Oslo is clearly the bigger tragedy, without question, but on a personal level, losing Amy means a great deal to me.
I've always loved her voice. Her Back to Black album got me through some really hard times in my life. When I thought I really couldn't take any more, Amy was there for me. Her lyrics, her attitude, her soul. I'm not one of those people who regularly 'invests' in celebrities, I should add. I was bemused by the national outpouring of grief when Princess Diana died, but today... today I cried. Even more so when my eldest daughter (away at her first festival with her sister and her dad) sent me a text saying 'oh my god mum - one of the bands is playing 'Valerie' because of Amy and I thought of you and hoped you're ok'. My kids know that that CD pulled me through as well.
She was too damn young of course - 27 is no age to die, but a part of me thinks that maybe now she'll find the peace she was lacking. I don't have any faith; I often wish I could believe in something, but I do believe that in death we find peace. A few years ago I worked in children & families social services and there was (as is always the way) one teenager who really got to me. He was deeply troubled - quite probably, as awful as it sounds, beyond any form of 'help' that we know of, but he had... something. Some kind of light... something. When he finally (and unsurprisingly) succeeded in taking his life, my area manager was the one that told me. Whilst I was momentarily furious, and ongoingly sad, I pulled myself through with the same thought; 'I hope he's found peace at last', or as my mother put it: 'better a happy death than an unhappy life'. Some people burn so brightly that you know they're never going to make old age. One of the songs that means a great deal to me is by Boo Hewerdine and one of the lines is '... have you ever had a girlfriend called Catherine Wheel?' and that's how I see some people. Burning brightly, shining their light and whirling... but only for a short time.
So rest now Amy. It's all done, and you'll live on in my heart, with my gratitude for the music and the lyrics.
I've always loved her voice. Her Back to Black album got me through some really hard times in my life. When I thought I really couldn't take any more, Amy was there for me. Her lyrics, her attitude, her soul. I'm not one of those people who regularly 'invests' in celebrities, I should add. I was bemused by the national outpouring of grief when Princess Diana died, but today... today I cried. Even more so when my eldest daughter (away at her first festival with her sister and her dad) sent me a text saying 'oh my god mum - one of the bands is playing 'Valerie' because of Amy and I thought of you and hoped you're ok'. My kids know that that CD pulled me through as well.
She was too damn young of course - 27 is no age to die, but a part of me thinks that maybe now she'll find the peace she was lacking. I don't have any faith; I often wish I could believe in something, but I do believe that in death we find peace. A few years ago I worked in children & families social services and there was (as is always the way) one teenager who really got to me. He was deeply troubled - quite probably, as awful as it sounds, beyond any form of 'help' that we know of, but he had... something. Some kind of light... something. When he finally (and unsurprisingly) succeeded in taking his life, my area manager was the one that told me. Whilst I was momentarily furious, and ongoingly sad, I pulled myself through with the same thought; 'I hope he's found peace at last', or as my mother put it: 'better a happy death than an unhappy life'. Some people burn so brightly that you know they're never going to make old age. One of the songs that means a great deal to me is by Boo Hewerdine and one of the lines is '... have you ever had a girlfriend called Catherine Wheel?' and that's how I see some people. Burning brightly, shining their light and whirling... but only for a short time.
So rest now Amy. It's all done, and you'll live on in my heart, with my gratitude for the music and the lyrics.
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
That thing you do
One of my best friends graduated yesterday with a First-Class Honours degree in Social Work. To say that I'm proud of her would be an understatement. She's battled through some real shit, above and beyond what most of us deal with, she's started (I think) to believe in herself a bit. She's grown in confidence, in self awareness, in almost every way (except for her waistline, which dammit has remained (unfairly, I might say) constantly slim.)
She's very important to me; she was my witness at my recent nuptials, despite the fact that she'd been very poorly (in hospital style poorly, not 'oh I've got the sniffles' poorly) a few days before. I haven't known her all that long - about 18 months maybe, but we clicked from the off. Isn't it just wonderful when you meet people and you think 'uh-huh, I like you' and hope that they feel the same way? She propped me up and talked sense to me, when I wasn't able to hear it from anyone else. And that's what I want to write about.
When I met Himself, I was overwhelmed. I wanted to make sense of my feelings now, not in a week, two weeks, a month, three months, a year. I wanted to understand what was happening and where we were going, and what I should (and shouldn't) do. And being the sort of person I am, I find it very difficult to process stuff without verbalising it all. It's not that I need input, per se, I just need someone to be there and nod occasionally, whilst I (try to) talk myself to a conclusion. I think I drove most of the people in my life mildly bonkers - we've all had a friend who just won't Shut Up about their new man, amirite? And that gets boring reeeeeeeeeal fast, doesn't it? Well my friend was there with me all the way. She listened when I needed her to, she gave (honest) advice when I asked for it, and that's no mean feat either. How often do we 'say the right thing' to people in our lives, rather than being brave enough to actually say what we think? She talked sense to me when I needed it, she gave me a shoulder (actual or otherwise) when I needed to sob, she gave me an ever patient ear for when I just needed to verbalise.
When I first moved in with Himself, and I was wretched and miserable and homesick and terrified, and trying to hide it from him (not very successfully I might add), she was there, on the end of the phone every day. She persuaded me that often, what's needed is just to work out how you're going to make it through the next five minutes, the next fifteen minutes, the next hour - there's no point in trying to sort out the next few months or years. Focus on today - and if that's too much focus on this morning, and if that's too much focus on getting through til 10am, and repeat, lessening the time scales until you can cope.
She taught me that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. The evenings I'd flee the flat, so caught up in excessive, destructive emotions, that I wasn't prepared to let Himself be party to, I'd run to the beach and call her. She'd listen to me sob, barely able to get the words out, never mind be coherent, and she'd remind me that I'd been here before, and that I'd managed; that I'd gotten through these feelings on more than one occasion before. She'd be there, on the other end of the phone as I watched the waves crashing onto the beach, whilst my own waves crashed inside me. And she was there the night that I managed to (briefly) overcome them, and I rang her and said, "I think I'm getting better at dealing with this." She never judged me, never told me that I was being illogical or irrational. She encouraged me to be brave. She taught me that feelings were valid, not right, necessarily, or wrong. Just feelings. Being afraid of them didn't help, but nor did trying to pretend they didn't exist.
And it was a two-way street. When her life was problematic and complicated, when her daughter was being stroppy and she had essay deadlines coming out of her ears, she rang me and we talked it through. She'd say it was a balanced deal (I think she got the worst end of the stick!), but we did make a deal: I'd get her to the end of her degree and she's get me up the aisle and married. Well, I got married recently (you may recall), and the day she rang me and told me she'd got a First, I wasn't surprised in the slightest. Happy for her, sure, but not shocked. Because that's what we really do for each other. We believe in each other, when we can't believe in ourselves. We pick each other up, talk sense to each other and have faith in each other.
My daughters used to roll their eyes when I talked to them about The Sisterhood, but they get it now. Real, true friends are incredible and hard to find. I read something somewhere, years ago now, about what you'd ask a fairy godmother to give your children. After the obvious good health and happiness, the author wrote, she'd ask them to grant her child three good friends - the sort that you could ring at 3am on a weekday night and say, "I need you," and their response would be "Where are you? I'm coming." The sort who'd always have a place on the sofa for you. Who'd laugh with you and cry with you. Who'd be brutally honest with you, and who you'd be honest with in return. Who'd tell you that, yes those jeans do make your bum look big, and yes that top is waaaaaaay to young for you, but buy it, just to do the ironing in because the colour is wonderful and you'll feel good every time you wear it. And buy the shoes and the handbag as well...
The connections we make, in the real world, through games, online, however, are vitally important. Our friends, the people whose opinions we value, who can make us laugh, who know us well enough to know when we're fooling ourselves (and who can judge whether to call us on it) who get it when we cry, who are as good as (and sometimes better than) family are a vital part of our lives. I'm so glad I have my friends, and I'm especially glad that I have this friend in particular.
She's very important to me; she was my witness at my recent nuptials, despite the fact that she'd been very poorly (in hospital style poorly, not 'oh I've got the sniffles' poorly) a few days before. I haven't known her all that long - about 18 months maybe, but we clicked from the off. Isn't it just wonderful when you meet people and you think 'uh-huh, I like you' and hope that they feel the same way? She propped me up and talked sense to me, when I wasn't able to hear it from anyone else. And that's what I want to write about.
When I met Himself, I was overwhelmed. I wanted to make sense of my feelings now, not in a week, two weeks, a month, three months, a year. I wanted to understand what was happening and where we were going, and what I should (and shouldn't) do. And being the sort of person I am, I find it very difficult to process stuff without verbalising it all. It's not that I need input, per se, I just need someone to be there and nod occasionally, whilst I (try to) talk myself to a conclusion. I think I drove most of the people in my life mildly bonkers - we've all had a friend who just won't Shut Up about their new man, amirite? And that gets boring reeeeeeeeeal fast, doesn't it? Well my friend was there with me all the way. She listened when I needed her to, she gave (honest) advice when I asked for it, and that's no mean feat either. How often do we 'say the right thing' to people in our lives, rather than being brave enough to actually say what we think? She talked sense to me when I needed it, she gave me a shoulder (actual or otherwise) when I needed to sob, she gave me an ever patient ear for when I just needed to verbalise.
When I first moved in with Himself, and I was wretched and miserable and homesick and terrified, and trying to hide it from him (not very successfully I might add), she was there, on the end of the phone every day. She persuaded me that often, what's needed is just to work out how you're going to make it through the next five minutes, the next fifteen minutes, the next hour - there's no point in trying to sort out the next few months or years. Focus on today - and if that's too much focus on this morning, and if that's too much focus on getting through til 10am, and repeat, lessening the time scales until you can cope.
She taught me that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. The evenings I'd flee the flat, so caught up in excessive, destructive emotions, that I wasn't prepared to let Himself be party to, I'd run to the beach and call her. She'd listen to me sob, barely able to get the words out, never mind be coherent, and she'd remind me that I'd been here before, and that I'd managed; that I'd gotten through these feelings on more than one occasion before. She'd be there, on the other end of the phone as I watched the waves crashing onto the beach, whilst my own waves crashed inside me. And she was there the night that I managed to (briefly) overcome them, and I rang her and said, "I think I'm getting better at dealing with this." She never judged me, never told me that I was being illogical or irrational. She encouraged me to be brave. She taught me that feelings were valid, not right, necessarily, or wrong. Just feelings. Being afraid of them didn't help, but nor did trying to pretend they didn't exist.
And it was a two-way street. When her life was problematic and complicated, when her daughter was being stroppy and she had essay deadlines coming out of her ears, she rang me and we talked it through. She'd say it was a balanced deal (I think she got the worst end of the stick!), but we did make a deal: I'd get her to the end of her degree and she's get me up the aisle and married. Well, I got married recently (you may recall), and the day she rang me and told me she'd got a First, I wasn't surprised in the slightest. Happy for her, sure, but not shocked. Because that's what we really do for each other. We believe in each other, when we can't believe in ourselves. We pick each other up, talk sense to each other and have faith in each other.
My daughters used to roll their eyes when I talked to them about The Sisterhood, but they get it now. Real, true friends are incredible and hard to find. I read something somewhere, years ago now, about what you'd ask a fairy godmother to give your children. After the obvious good health and happiness, the author wrote, she'd ask them to grant her child three good friends - the sort that you could ring at 3am on a weekday night and say, "I need you," and their response would be "Where are you? I'm coming." The sort who'd always have a place on the sofa for you. Who'd laugh with you and cry with you. Who'd be brutally honest with you, and who you'd be honest with in return. Who'd tell you that, yes those jeans do make your bum look big, and yes that top is waaaaaaay to young for you, but buy it, just to do the ironing in because the colour is wonderful and you'll feel good every time you wear it. And buy the shoes and the handbag as well...
The connections we make, in the real world, through games, online, however, are vitally important. Our friends, the people whose opinions we value, who can make us laugh, who know us well enough to know when we're fooling ourselves (and who can judge whether to call us on it) who get it when we cry, who are as good as (and sometimes better than) family are a vital part of our lives. I'm so glad I have my friends, and I'm especially glad that I have this friend in particular.
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